


A Capitol Fourth

by c7a8t9



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Capitol Fourth, F/M, Fourth of July, PTSD, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 08:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c7a8t9/pseuds/c7a8t9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josh gets an invitation that makes Donna reflect on just how far they've come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Capitol Fourth

**Author's Note:**

> This was posted in a slightly different form on tumblr.  
> I was inspired by Bradley Whitford hosting A Capitol Fourth, to imagine what it would be like if Josh Lyman had gotten that invitation instead.

He had been out of the White House barely five months when they asked him to host the D.C. Fourth of July concert and fireworks. Someone from PBS must have seen his fiery appearances on Washington Week in the early Bartlet days and then held on to this idea for sixteen long years. (He had stayed away from the talk shows during Santos’ terms for everyone’s sake.)

He was giddy. She had barely gotten the words “How was your…” out of her mouth when he blurted out the news, gesticulating wildly as he reeled off the list of performers, “…and they’ve got Barry Manilow, and Alabama, and KC and the Sunshine Band!”

There was no question that he’d do it. In the rush of his enthusiasm it seemed inevitable. But later, when the kids were finally asleep and she was brushing her teeth while he changed for bed, the enormity of it struck her: _There was no question that he’d do it._

They hadn’t had to give it a second thought. Fireworks, cannons, a 21-gun salute, sirens, classical music and he hadn’t even paused to worry about it.

Fifteen years earlier this would have seemed impossible.

When she was sitting in an ER waiting room on Christmas Eve, this would have seemed impossible.

When she was watching out the window of his office as he climbed out of the motorcade, wincing at the blaring sirens, this would have seemed impossible.

When she was buying him noise cancelling headphones and telling him they were “a very late Hanukkah present”, this would have seemed impossible.

When, four years later, she had to start skipping any ceremony with cannon fire, this would have seemed impossible.

When she was shaking him awake from yet another nightmare to remind him that he was safe, it wasn’t real, he was right there in their bed, this would have seemed impossible.

When he was doing the same for her, this would have seemed impossible.

And yet, somehow, here they were.

It had taken so much time and so much therapy. It had taken so much patience and so much love. It had taken a membership at a boxing gym so their windows stayed intact. It had taken a case of diaries to pour her thoughts into. It had taken vigilance and forethought. It had cost them in health insurance and time and tears and fights about whether “possible troop movements near the Ukraine border” constituted enough of a National Emergency to cancel a therapy session.

But now, they didn’t need to give any of these things a second thought. The freedom of that, the sense of a weight having lifted off both of them made her pause in awe and gratitude.

When she first confessed to him, in a bed in a hotel in Hawaii, that she now had terrible insight into the pain he experienced, he gently pulled her into his arms and shared his secret weapon. There were three little words that he repeated like a mantra every time it felt impossible, three little words that showed him the only way out of the hole, three little words that had kept him alive. But that night he added a fourth: “We get better. Together.”


End file.
